


Break Me Down, Hold Me Up

by sospes



Series: Utter Filth (With Feelings) [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: But They Haven’t Worked It Out Yet, Dirty Talk, Group Sex, Honestly This Is Just Filth, Idiots in Love, M/M, Multi, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Orgy, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sex Party, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:08:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23014528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sospes/pseuds/sospes
Summary: Jaskier takes Geralt to Cidaris’ most exclusive sex party. It goes about how you’d imagine.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Original Male Character(s), Jaskier | Dandelion/Valdo Marx
Series: Utter Filth (With Feelings) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1674421
Comments: 156
Kudos: 1296
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection





	Break Me Down, Hold Me Up

**Author's Note:**

> This is the filthiest thing I have ever written, what is this fandom doing to me. 
> 
> Also ages ago I read a fic (can’t remember which one for the life of me) where the author said they mentally imagined Valdo Marx as Armie Hammer, and now that’s all I can think of!

“There’s a party tonight.” 

Geralt looks up from cleaning the shoulderpieces of his armour. Jaskier’s studying him, an odd expression on his face that Geralt can’t quite place, and he continues, “In the manor house at the top of the hill.”

Geralt isn’t sure where he’s going with this. “I assume you’re going?” 

Jaskier shifts a little. “It’s a sex party.” 

Geralt feels his eyebrows rising. “Okay.” 

“It’s the most famous of its kind in Cidaris,” Jaskier says. “And they have quite a lot of these kind of parties here, the kingdom’s sort of known for it. This is the best. Kind of an anything goes kind of thing, but they’re very hot on consent. It’s a good night, I’ve been before.” 

Geralt keeps staring at him. “Why are you telling me this?” he asks.

Jaskier flushes. “You’re invited, too,” he says. “If you want to come, that is. You don’t have to.” 

Geralt frowns and puts his armour down. “Do you want me to come?” 

“I should make a joke about that,” Jaskier says, smiling a lopsided smile. “You know, ‘come’. When we’re talking about an orgy.” He shrugs. “Just thought you might want to come along. It’ll be fun! You don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to – a lot of people just come to watch. Or you can get involved, fuck a bunch of people. I’m sure you’d be in high demand with your, you know.” He waves a hand in the general direction of Geralt’s crotch. 

Geralt stares a moment longer, then goes back to his armour. “Sure,” he says. “Sounds good.” 

“Great!” Jaskier says. “And there’s one thing you’re really going to like.” 

“Oh?”

“You don’t have to dress up for this one,” Jaskier beams.

Geralt just hums in answer. 

They’ve been periodically fucking for seven months. It started with rushed handjobs in a shared bedroll during the winter, escalated to Jaskier sinking to his knees in front of Geralt behind a tavern in Novigrad, and finally culminated in Geralt fucking Jaskier into the mattress in their room in a crappy inn in the middle of nowhere. 

They haven’t really talked about whether there are any emotions involved. 

The party, which is definitely a very loose term, is in full swing by the time they arrive. They’re checked thoroughly on the door, questioned about their intentions and preconceptions, given a run down of the ground rules—ask before touching, no very much means no, keep hydrated, make sure you eat, tap out at any time—but eventually they’re let through. Geralt can smell sex on the air, thick and heady, and it’s twisting heat through his gut already. 

“Every guest gets their own room in the manor,” Jaskier says, “to sleep it off, afterwards. Most people aren’t really in a fit state to be going home. We’ve got one to share – I figured that was okay?” 

Geralt nods, wordlessly. 

“Good,” Jaskier says. “We can leave our clothes there, too. Make sure we don’t end up walking back to Roach in tatters.” 

Their room is small but well-appointed, with a single double bed and a washbasin in the corner. They meet several others on their way there, couples, individuals, a few larger groups, all of them unabashedly naked – and Jaskier greets a few of them, all smiles and laughs, kisses the cheeks of tall woman with flame-red hair, swats the ass of a man whose eyes are as laughingly blue as Jaskier’s. “How many of these parties have you been to before?” Geralt asks once they’re inside, stripping off his shirt with practiced efficiency. 

Jaskier shrugs, pulling off his boots. “A few?” he hazards. “Maybe four? Never brought anyone along with me, though.” He looks up at Geralt. “Didn’t think it was really your scene.” He goes back to his boots. “And if it’s not, feel free to leave. I won’t be offended.” 

Geralt just shrugs. 

Jaskier strips out of the remainder of his clothes, folds them neatly, and stacks them on top of a small chest of drawers. He’s unselfconscious in his nudity, waist slim, arms leanly muscled, and Geralt takes a moment to just appreciate the sight in front of him. 

“Are you going to stare all night?” Jaskier asks, laugh in his voice. “Or shall we go downstairs?” 

“Downstairs sounds good,” Geralt says, and feels an odd kind of excitement curling in his chest. 

Jaskier’s eyes are bright. “Excellent,” he says, and leads the way. 

At the centre of the manor is a large, columned hall, floor and ceiling white marble, gilt-framed paintings hanging from the walls. The hall is arranged with couches, sofas, chairs, low beds, chaise longes, any and all kinds of soft surfaces – and a good number of them are already occupied. Geralt stares for a moment, taking in the writhing, thrusting, pulsing bodies, the cries and moans, the pants and sighs, and feels blood starting to flood towards his cock. 

Jaskier laughs, at his side. “It’s a lot, isn’t it?” he says. “Like the lovely gentlemen on the door said: there’s no pressure, and no rush. If you just want to watch, there are chairs all around the edge. If you’re sitting there, no one will approach you. And there’s food and drink at the edges, too – all up for grabs. And there’s this.” He guides Geralt to a low table that’s laden with a whole variety of… well, sex toys. “Take whatever you fancy,” Jaskier says. “And when you’re done with it, give it to one of the attendants.” He flashes Geralt a wicked smile, picks up a shiny metal cock ring, spins it around his fingertip. “Unless someone else wants your messy seconds. Which, you know, they might.” 

Geralt eyes the ring in Jaskier’s hand. “You going to be using that?” 

Jaskier pops the ring open, lets his smile spread wider, and snaps it around the base of his already-hard cock. “Don’t want things to finish too quickly,” he says, shrugging. “Not all of us have your ability to… recover.” 

Heat is rising in Geralt’s belly, but he just hums in response. 

Jaskier laughs, pats Geralt’s bare shoulder, and says, “See you out there, Geralt. Enjoy yourself.” He breezes past, goes to wander among the couples and threesomes and moresomes, one hand lightly stroking his cock as he goes. 

Geralt’s throat is dry, and he abruptly remembers the instruction to hydrate. 

He goes to get a drink, then, glass of ale in hand, takes a seat at the edge of the hall. He’s not alone: there are a few of them just watching, a woman with her hand buried between her thighs, a man slowly sipping a cup of wine, and so Geralt sits back, relaxes, and studies the scene in front of him. It’s carnality and lust and insanity, all rolled into one, a couple fucking loud and heavy against one of the columns, two women taking turns sucking a man’s cock, another holding the lead attached to the collar of the man whose face she’s sitting astride – but time and again, Geralt finds his gaze drawn back to Jaskier. 

He’s not alone, which is unsurprising. Geralt’s bard is kneeling on a low bed, sandwiched between two men, one blond and tall, his tongue in Jaskier’s mouth and his hand on Jaskier’s cock, the other red haired and muscled, his cock sliding between Jaskier’s thighs as he sucks marks into his neck. 

Thing is, Geralt half expects to be jealous as Jaskier’s head falls back, as he moans, as his hips stutter forward into the blond man’s hand. There’s a part of him—the wolfish part, if he’s honest—that he sort of thought would flush with anger at the sight, would champ at the bit to go and push and claim – but he’s not jealous. He watches, sipping his ale, as the two men manhandle Jaskier between them, pushing his head down to the blond’s cock, pulling his arse skywards. The redhead has a jar of something that Geralt is guessing is oil in his hand and he dips his fingers in, slicks them up, then slowly slides one finger into Jaskier’s body. 

Geralt doesn’t need Witcher heading to be able to hear Jaskier’s groan. 

Something coils in his gut, tight and protective. 

Geralt stands, abandoning his seat and his ale. He makes his way between the bodies, between the sea of pleasure, vaguely aware that he’s hard as a fucking rock, and goes to Jaskier. The blond man looks up at his approach, his hand in Jaskier’s hair, slowly fucking his cock in and out of his mouth. “Want to join in?” he asks, his voice rough around the edges. 

“No,” Geralt says, grabbing a nearby plush armchair and dragging it closer. “Just watching, for now.” He glances to the redhead, still working one finger in and out of Jaskier’s arse. “You can stretch him faster than that,” he says, matter of fact. “He can take it. And he likes it rough.” 

The redhead reaches around, squeezes Jaskier’s neglected cock. “Is that right, pet?” he asks. 

The blond pulls his cock out of Jaskier’s mouth just long enough for him to gasp, “Gods, yes, _please_.” 

The blond shoves his cock back between Jaskier’s red, red lips, and Jaskier groans, deep in his throat. “You heard him, Deck,” the blond says, laughing. “Let’s give this kind gentleman a show.” 

Deck pulls his finger out then comes back with two, thrusting, scissoring, then before long he adds another, three fingers, in and out. “You like that, pet, don’t you?” he says in answer to Jaskier’s increasingly loud moans. “You like my fingers in you like this? Would you like my cock even more?” 

Jaskier whines his agreement, saliva drooling out of the corners of his mouth where it’s stretched around the blond’s cock.

“Slowly at first,” Geralt advises, as Deck rubs the head of his cock teasingly across Jaskier’s entrance. Jaskier makes a needy noise and Deck takes pity, obeys Geralt’s instructions, pushes slowly into Jaskier’s arse. Geralt lets him bottom out, then pauses, breathes in Jaskier’s scent, smells only arousal and need. “Fuck him hard,” he says. “He’s ready.” 

The blond strokes Jaskier’s cheek. “Is he right?” he asks, pulling back enough for Jaskier to gasp a quick “ _Yes_ ” before that cock is back in his mouth again. 

“Works for me,” Deck says tightly, then starts to fuck Jaskier with abandon. 

Geralt tunes out the slap of slick flesh, the low grunts coming from Deck’s throat, the blond’s quick breathing. He focuses on Jaskier, on the rich scent of how much he wants this, on the hum of pleasure he never stops making, on the hitching of his breath and the eagerness of his lips. It’s intoxicating. It’s fucking ecstatic. 

“Shit,” Deck grunts, and comes with a final snap of his hips. Jaskier makes a sad noise as he pulls out, the sharp scent of his come staining Geralt’s nostrils, but then Deck looks up, still breathing hard, and says, “Your turn, Sterez.” He rubs his thumb around Jaskier’s rim. “He’s fucking _tight_.” 

Sterez pulls his cock out of Jaskier’s mouth, leans down, takes his chin in his hand. “Do you want that, pretty boy?” he asks, low and purring. “Do you want me to fuck you next? Do you want me to come in you as well?” 

Jaskier groans wordlessly, then says, “ _Yes_ , please, please fuck me.” His voice is rough, sex-riven, and his lips are slick with saliva. He’s gorgeous. 

“Don’t have to ask me twice,” Sterez laughs, and goes to take his place at Jaskier’s arse. He fucks him slower than Deck, his hands digging deep into Jaskier’s hips, and he’s muttering filth as he does so: “So fucking tight, gods, you love being filled like this, don’t you? You love my cock in your arse like this, and you’ll love it when I come in you, won’t you?” 

“Room for one more?” A man with a shaved head and pierced nipples approaches, his eyes fixed on Jaskier’s gaping mouth – but it’s not Jaskier he’s asking, and it’s not Sterez, either. He’s asking _Geralt_. “Can I come in his mouth?” he asks. “Those lips are just so fucking pretty.”

“Geralt, _please_ ,” Jaskier groans. 

“You can,” Geralt says, and watches as the newcomer joins Jaskier on the bed, strokes a hand through his hair, presses the head of his cock against his lips until Jaskier opens his mouth, eyes closed, expression absolutely beatific. 

The strange thing is, Geralt is discovering, he has no desire to actually get involved. He’s turned on, sure, his cock hot and heavy against his thigh, but he doesn’t need to do anything about it for the moment, not while Jaskier is like this, stretched out and used, revelling in every damn second of it. He can enjoy the view without needing to be a part of it. And he can make sure that Jaskier gets exactly what he wants. 

“Fuck,” Sterez gasps, and comes. He slides out of Jaskier’s arse, releasing a mess of come down Jaskier’s thighs, and only moments later the man with the shaved head makes a sharp grunting noise and comes in Jaskier’s mouth. Jaskier hums his pleasure and swallows, his throat bobbing, and then collapses down on his forearms, head resting on the mattress. He’s panting for breath, saliva and come dripping from the side of his mouth. 

Geralt absently realises that the cock ring is doing its job. Jaskier hasn’t come yet. 

He leans forward, doesn’t touch, just gets close enough that he knows Jaskier can hear him and no one else can. “Jaskier,” he says softly. “You okay?” 

Jaskier hums his agreement. “Yeah,” he manages after a moment. 

“You want more?” Geralt asks. 

Jaskier groans. “ _Please_.” 

“Arse or mouth?” 

“ _Both_.”

Geralt sits up again. There are a few men sitting on the chairs and couches around them, waiting, watching, and Geralt coaxes Jaskier’s head up, strokes a hand through his hair. “Who do you want?” he asks. 

Jaskier licks his lips. “Scarface,” he says, nodding breathlessly to a dark-haired man with a scar twisting his cheek, “in my arse. And the one with the beard,” indicating a blond man with a carefully-braided beard, “in my mouth.” 

Geralt studies the two men for a second, feeling their eyes on him, then nods. “You heard him,” he says, louder, and Jaskier makes a quiet noise of ecstasy as the chosen pair get to their feet. “Fast or slow?” Geralt asks, smoothing Jaskier’s hair back from his sweaty forehead. 

“Fast,” is Jaskier’s hoarse instruction. 

Geralt sits back, watches as two more cocks sink into Jaskier’s body, watches as Jaskier breathes slow to accommodate them. He can smell when Jaskier’s ready, and he looks to the two men, nods. “Go ahead,” he says, and there’s something primal in him that fucking loves the noises Jaskier makes as he is thoroughly ruined. There are tears in his eyes before long as the bearded man fucks unrelentingly into his throat, but Geralt pays attention to his smell, to the arch of his body, and he knows that it’s a lot but it isn’t too much. The scarred man, by contrast, is comparatively gentle, thrusting slow and steady into his arse, large hands mapping the planes of Jaskier’s back, gently squeezing his cock, massaging his balls. 

Jaskier makes a muted noise, not a pleasured noise, not a happy noise. 

Geralt shifts forward, says, “Stop.” in a voice that brooks no argument. Scarface and bearded both freeze, and bearded doesn’t need to be asked to release Jaskier’s mouth. “Jaskier?” Geralt asks. 

“My cock,” Jaskier gasps, eyes shut. “Don’t touch it. Too much. Everything else is fine, just not that.” 

Scarface nods to Geralt. “Got it.” 

“Good,” Geralt says, and the tension seeps out of Jaskier’s shoulders. “Keep going.” 

And they do. 

Bearded comes first, pumping down Jaskier’s throat with a drawn-out moan. Jaskier swallows a decent amount of it, but a sticky strand escapes the corner of his mouth. “Clean him up,” Geralt says to bearded, who obediently leans down and licks up his own mess, nuzzles into Jaskier’s cheek and steals an obscenely wet kiss. When he lets go, Jaskier folds back down to the bed, face pillowed on his arms, as scarface keeps up his maddeningly-slow pace. “ _Geralt_ ,” Jaskier groans, a tremble in his voice that wasn’t there before. 

Geralt understands. “Come in him now,” he says to scarface, “or don’t come in him at all.” 

“Fucking hell,” scarface grunts, and comes. 

Jaskier’s whole body is shaking, now, tight little trembles that Geralt can feel through the floor. “Jaskier,” he says, leaning forward as scarface pulls out. “You okay?” 

Jaskier groans, and nods. 

“You want me to take off the cock ring?” 

Jaskier shakes his head almost violently. “Just need a minute,” he gasps. 

“Sure?” 

“Sure.” 

Geralt comes to sit on the bed next to Jaskier. “I’m going to touch you,” he says gently, “just to lie you down, okay?” 

Jaskier nods, and Geralt carefully manhandles him until he’s lying on his side, curled towards him. The bearded man reappears at Geralt’s side with a cup of water and a handful of dried apricots, which Geralt accepts with a nod. “Drink,” he says to Jaskier, holding the cup to his lips, and when the water’s gone he persuades him to eat two of the apricots. Jaskier is pliant and malleable under his touch, letting himself be pulled and prodded into whatever state and shape that Geralt needs him in, and for a second Geralt wonders what would have happened if he hadn’t been here. Would someone else be doing this for Jaskier? Or would he just have to look after himself? 

“I’m good,” Jaskier says after a while, and Geralt notes with satisfaction that the trembling in his limbs has stopped. 

“You sure?” Geralt asks, putting the remainder of the apricots back on his chair. 

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Jaskier says, and shifts to push himself back onto his hands and knees. The movement isn’t as easy as it usually is and the swollen head of his cock brushes lightly against the bed under him. Jaskier groans, low and long. “Fuck, Geralt, I need someone in me _right now_.” 

“May I be of assistance?” a new voice asks, slick and oddly… smug? 

Jaskier looks up, a flash of recognition in his eyes. “Marx,” he says, a challenge in his voice. 

Marx is tall, taller than Geralt, blond and muscled and strikingly conventionally attractive. “Pancratz,” he says with that same challenge. “I see you brought a friend.” 

Jaskier groans and arches his back. “Get in me, Valdo,” he snaps. “Before you bore us all to death with your unoriginality.” 

It clicks in Geralt’s head. “Valdo Marx? The troubadour?” 

Marx lifts an eyebrow. “So you’ve heard of me?” 

“Not really,” Geralt answers, and lifts Jaskier’s chin to study his face. “You once wished for a djinn to murder him,” he says, frowning. “You sure you want him to fuck you?” 

“Very sure,” Jaskier says. “His cock is incredible.” 

Marx makes an amused noise. “Does that satisfy you?” he asks Geralt, one eyebrow raised. 

Geralt holds his gaze, holds it a moment longer than is comfortable, waits until Marx starts to fidget, then says, “Go ahead.” 

Marx’s eyes gleam. 

Geralt stays sitting on the bed, close enough that he can catch Jaskier if he collapses or, alternatively, eviscerate Valdo Marx if he so much as looks at Jaskier in the wrong way. Jaskier seems to appreciate his presence, rubbing his cheek against Geralt’s shoulder like a cat, making soft panting noises as Marx runs his hands over his arse, sliding two, three fingers inside him with little to no resistance. Marx tuts, mock-disappointed. “Gods, Julian, how many cocks have you already taken?” he asks, shaking his head. “You are so messy. If the Countess de Lettenhove could see you now…” 

“Don’t bring my godsdamned mother into this,” Jaskier barks, then moans at whatever Marx’s fingers are doing and presses his forehead to Geralt’s shoulder. “Again.” 

“So demanding,” Marx practically purrs, then withdraws his fingers, slick with other men’s come. He looks up, meets Geralt’s gaze. “Can I hit him?” he asks, head cocked. 

“Jaskier?” Geralt says softly. 

Jaskier seems to think about it for a moment, then nods.

“You can,” Geralt says, looking back up at Marx. “But only when I say you can.” He runs his fingers through Jaskier’s hair, feels his breath coming in short gasps. “One on each side. Now.” 

Marx’s hand comes down with a crack on one side of Jaskier’s arse, then again in quick succession on the other. “That’s for beating me at the winter festival in Novigrad,” he says, and the moan that comes out of Jaskier’s mouth is _obscene_. 

“Again,” Geralt says, scenting nothing but lust on Jaskier’s skin. 

Two more sharp smacks, openhanded and rough. “And that’s for upstaging me at the Lupercalia in Brond last year.” 

Geralt feels Jaskier practically thrumming against him. “Again.” 

Two more, and Jaskier’s panting, heavy and wanting. “For telling the the Cintran royal court that my songs are cheap, amateurish trash.” 

Jaskier laughs, a shattering, heated sound. “It’s true, though,” he whispers to Geralt, who has to fight the urge to roll his eyes. 

“Again,” he says. 

Marx slaps once. “And this,” he says, a trace of real spite in his voice as he slaps a second time, “is for having a better top range than I do.” 

Jaskier whimpers, a keening sound that sets Geralt’s teeth on edge. There’s a different note in his smell, now, a whisper of pain, of hurt, and Geralt brushes a thumb across Jaskier’s cheek. “Do you want more?” he asks. 

Jaskier shakes his head, wordless. 

“Do you still want him to fuck you?”

Jaskier groans, deep in his throat, and nods. 

Geralt looks up to Marx. “No more hitting,” he says flatly. “Just fuck him.” 

Marx grips Jaskier’s hips with one hand, running the long, musician’s fingers of the other across the red of Jaskier’s arse. “You want that, don’t you, Julian?” he purrs, pressing the head of his cock into Jaskier’s body. “You hate me, but you _love_ the feeling of my cock inside you.”

Jaskier makes an incoherent noise that even Geralt can’t decipher, but there’s no bitterness in his scent, only want, and want, and want. 

“Gods,” Marx grunts, “but I fucking love fucking you.” He slides in deeper, drawing a ragged moan from Jaskier’s lips. “And I love it the most like this,” Marx says, setting a pace that teeters just on the edge of too much. “When you’re already fucked wide open, full of come, _dripping_ with it. You’re wetter than a woman, you know that? But fuck, your arse is pretty like this. Red and bruised, _punished_. Stretched around my cock, taking it like you were meant to.” He laughs, a rich, dark sound. “When your musical career inevitably collapses, you hack, you’ll make a wonderful whore.” 

Jaskier moans, his face buried in Geralt’s shoulder. 

Marx’s face is pinched, lips pressed tight, and he falls silent as he thrusts even harder, even faster. Jaskier makes a breathy little gasp with every thrust, his skin slick with sweat, his head hung, and Geralt runs his hand through his hair, checking his breathing, his pulse. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Marx groans, drawn out and surprisingly musical, and Geralt smells the musk of his orgasm, bitter and salty. Marx slumps back, breath panting, and Geralt catches Jaskier as he wavers, come dripping down his thighs, cock clearly painfully hard between his legs. 

“Jaskier?” Geralt asks. 

Jaskier hums, eyes closed. 

“You okay?” 

Jaskier doesn’t answer for a moment. When he does, his voice is a little shaky, yes, but it’s clear and conscious. “I want one more,” he says, eyes still closed. “I don’t care who, you choose for me. And then I want you, Geralt.”

A fire curls in Geralt’s gut. “Are you sure?” 

“Never been more sure of anything in my life,” Jaskier answers, surprisingly lucid. “I want one more stranger to come in my arse, and then I want you to be the last to fuck me, Geralt. And when you’re done, I want to come for you.” He presses his cheek against Geralt’s shoulder, eyes fluttering open. They’re a little glassy, but still mostly clear. “That okay with you?” 

“That’s okay with me,” Geralt murmurs. 

Geralt looks up, absently registering that Marx has taken a seat off to the side and is watching them, boneless and limp. There are other spectators, some clearly already satisfied, others standing ready to take part. There’s a black-haired man with intensely green eyes who catches Geralt’s eye, his face pretty, high cheekbones, full lips, and he approaches at Geralt’s nod, waits for Geralt’s instructions. “Fuck his arse,” Geralt says, feeling Jaskier tremble in anticipation against his shoulder. He’s basically holding Jaskier in his arms, now, and there’s a bizarre, incredible intimacy in the gesture. “Don’t touch his cock, don’t speak to him, don’t touch him anywhere apart from where you need to in order to fuck him. Understand?” 

Green eyes nods. “I understand.” 

Geralt strokes Jaskier’s sweaty hair. “Be my guest.” 

Geralt’s choice does exactly as he’s told, pushing his cock into Jaskier’s arse swiftly and firmly, fucking him at a slow, leisurely pace that rapidly builds, and builds, and builds. All Geralt can focus on is Jaskier, though, practically collapsed in his lap, arse and hips held high by green eyes’ firm hands. Jaskier reeks of sweat and sex and other men’s come, dried on his lips and down his thighs, still wet and slick in his arse, and his eyes are lidded as his body jerks with every thrust. He’s muttering something that Geralt can’t quite make out, something that sounds like _good_ and _yes_ and _geralt_ and _please_ , and Geralt’s been doing pretty well with not focusing on his own arousal this far but, shit, he doesn’t think he’s ever heard anything hotter than Jaskier groaning his name as a nameless stranger fucks him from behind. 

There’s something fierce and protective growing in Geralt’s heart, something that he doesn’t have a name for. 

Green eyes comes in silence, his head thrown back and his mouth gaping wide open. He pulls out after a moment, his come joining all the rest in Jaskier’s abused body, and he says, “Thank you.” in a hoarse voice. 

Geralt strokes Jaskier’s cheek. “Hey,” he says quietly. “You need a minute?” 

“I need _you_ ,” Jaskier slurs. “ _Please_.” He’s shaking, trembling, but Geralt can smell that he’s okay, he’s overwhelmed but it isn’t too much, he’s aching and hard and he fucking loves it. He’s also clearly not going to be able to be much of an active participant in this, so Geralt pulls him closer, gently, carefully, rearranging him so that he’s astride Geralt’s thighs, holding him against his chest, his head lolling against Geralt’s shoulder. For a long moment, Geralt just holds him there, waiting patiently, then he feels Jaskier’s arms come up, push into his hair, feels his hips weakly twitch forward, rubbing the head of his cock against Geralt’s stomach. “Geralt,” he whispers, and that’s enough. 

Geralt lowers Jaskier slowly onto his cock, pushing shallowly into the sticky-slick mess inside him until he’s fully in. There’s come on both of them, now, pooling on Geralt’s thighs as it drips out of Jaskier’s body, and it should be disgusting but instead it twists something deeper in Geralt’s gut, something animalistic and feral. 

He groans softly in Jaskier’s ear. “I’m not gonna last long,” he says, then noses against Jaskier’s throat, kisses the rabbiting of his pulse. 

“Probably for the best,” Jaskier says faintly. 

Geralt can’t hold back a growl at the vulnerability in Jaskier’s voice, at the _trust_ , and he thrusts as hard as he dares, holding Jaskier still as he fucks him and fucks him and fucks him. Jaskier whines, a thready, needy sound that Geralt can feel pushing him even further over the edge – and as he feels his own orgasm start to coil in his belly, insistent, overripe, he reaches for Jaskier’s cock, snaps the cock ring off and strokes him once, root to tip. 

It’s enough. 

Jaskier comes with a cry, fingernails digging into Geralt’s shoulders, and the feel of his come spilling across Geralt’s fist and stomach sparks Geralt’s own release, hot and hard. He buries his face in Jaskier’s neck, maps his teeth over the bruise that the first man to fuck him left in his skin, bites down just hard enough that _his_ mark is the one that’ll stay, _his_ mark is the one that will be there in the morning. Jaskier doesn’t make a sound at the mistreatment, just sags against him, eyes shut, body limp as a fish, and it’s only his ragged breathing in Geralt’s ear that tells him he’s still alive. 

Geralt slides out of Jaskier as gently as he can. “Jaskier?” he asks, rubbing his hand up and down Jaskier’s back. “You okay there?” 

Jaskier makes a low noise against Geralt’s shoulder, but otherwise seems incapable of speech. 

“Here,” a voice says, and much to his surprise, Geralt finds Valdo Marx pressing a cup of water into his hand. Geralt takes it, a little suspiciously, and Marx gives him an unimpressed look. “It’s not poisoned,” he says flatly. “Or do you want me to drink some to prove it to you? I might not _like_ him because he’s a talentless hack who panders to the whims of the masses and doesn’t seem to give two shits about musical tradition, but I know _etiquette_ , gods.”

Geralt just stares at him until he huffs, muttering something about philistines. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says softly, earning a disinterested huff of breath. “Drink.” 

Jaskier still doesn’t seem particularly interested in cooperating, so Geralt pulls his head up, presses the cup to his lips until he gets with the programme and drinks. He still seems incapable of holding himself up which, to be honest, isn’t really that surprising. His hands rest limply on Geralt’s shoulders, and when the water is finished he buries his face in Geralt’s neck, mumbling something that’s too quiet to hear. 

The man with black hair and green eyes passes Geralt the apricots that he left on his chair, and Geralt nods his thanks, feeds them to Jaskier one by one. He gets more lucid as time passes, and his eyes lose their fucked-out glassiness. He’s still a mess, of course, and every time he shifts across Geralt’s thighs a little more come slicks across them both, but he seems less likely to actually slide fully off Geralt’s lap to the marble floor if Geralt relaxes his grip. 

Not that Geralt is about to relax his grip. 

Jaskier lets out a pleased sigh, his hand coming up to tangle in Geralt’s hair. “Hey,” he says softly. 

“Hey,” Geralt answers, pressing a kiss to Jaskier’s pulse, slower now, less frantic. “How you feeling?” 

“Sore,” Jaskier says. “But good.” He sighs, relaxing in Geralt’s embrace. “You don’t have to stay with me, you know,” he says after a moment. “I think I’m done, but I can make my own way upstairs. Feel free to go and play.” 

Geralt hums. “Can you walk?” he asks pointedly. 

Jaskier shifts again, clearly trying to get his legs under him, then stills. “Ah, that might be issue,” he says, a little embarrassed. “But honestly, Geralt. Just dump me upstairs and come back, if you want.” 

Geralt thinks about the vulnerability in Jaskier’s voice, about the way it was always Geralt’s name on his lips no matter who was inside him, then thinks about that fierce protectiveness in his gut, how he only had eyes for Jaskier. “And if I don’t want to?” he asks, low and heavy. 

Jaskier pulls back as much as he can, still mostly supported by the circle of Geralt’s arms but, you know, at least he can support the weight of his own head now. He studies Geralt for a moment, hair wild, lips red, a messy smear of come dried on his cheek, and there’s something unreadable in his eyes. “Then,” he says, oddly softly, “I reckon we should head back upstairs and get cleaned up.” 

Geralt can do that. 

As it turns out, Jaskier very much cannot walk. He manages one step before his legs basically crumple under him, so Geralt takes the easy way out and just picks him up and carries him out of the main hall. The party is very much still in full swing around them but Geralt just goes through it, stepping over a couple entwined on the floor and dodging an enthusiastically outstretched arm. An attendant approaches them as they leave, casting an assessing eye over Jaskier. “Can I help you, sirs?” 

“We need food and hot water delivered to our room,” Geralt says. 

“The room is under Pancratz,” Jaskier adds, his eyelids drooping. 

The attendant nods. “Of course.” 

In their room, Geralt lays Jaskier carefully down on the bed and watches as a pair of attendants bring in food, drink, and enough hot water to clean an army. He refuses their offer of help and sends them away, then wets a soft cloth in the warm, scented water, and proceeds to clean Jaskier up. It takes a while: his inner thighs are a mess of dried come, and he flinches whenever Geralt rubs too hard with the cloth, overstimulated, oversensitive. When Jaskier’s clean and Geralt has wiped the mess off his own thighs and chest, Geralt picks up the small pot of lavender-smelling salve that the attendants brought with them and proceeds to massage it carefully into the red, abused skin of Jaskier’s arse. 

Facedown in the pillows, Jaskier moans. “Fuck, Geralt,” he husks. “That feels amazing.” 

“Who did this for you before?” Geralt asks, soft in the perfumed air. “The other times you came to these parties.” 

Jaskier shrugs. “No one,” he says. “Didn’t really need it.” 

Geralt raises an eyebrow. “After _that_?” 

“Didn’t do that before,” Jaskier murmurs, his eyes mostly closed. “At least, not all of it. Not _six_.” He groans at the memory. “Two or three at most. Enough to feel good, not so much that I actually couldn’t walk after.” 

Geralt screws the lid back on the salve. “Why did you let it go so far tonight?” 

Jaskier opens his eyes, with difficulty angles himself so that he can see Geralt’s face. “Because you were there,” he says, open and honest. “I knew you wouldn’t let it go too far. Wouldn’t let it end up being more than I could take.” He closes his eyes, makes a noise of satisfaction. “I trust you.” 

Warmth curls in Geralt’s stomach. 

He puts the salve to one side and slides into the bed, bodily moving Jaskier until they’re both underneath the sheets, still naked, Jaskier tucked into the side of his body. Jaskier sighs, eyes closed. “Can’t believe I let Valdo fucking Marx _spank_ me like that.” 

Geralt stills. “Should I have stopped him?” 

“Gods, no, it was incredible,” Jaskier says. “I should bruise his ego more often, clearly, if that’s how he wants to work it out.” 

Geralt noses into Jaskier’s still-sweaty hair, kisses his forehead. “Go to sleep,” he says. 

Jaskier hums, deep in his throat. “Thank you,” he says, faintly, softly. “For tonight. And for – everything.” There’s a little hitch in his voice there, quiet and pausing. It catches in Geralt’s throat, but before he can work out what it means, Jaskier’s breathing has slipped sideways into long, slow susurrations. His eyes are closed, his lashes long and dark against his cheeks. 

After a moment, Geralt closes his eyes and lets the thud of Jaskier’s sated human heart lull him into sleep.


End file.
